


The Best Laid Plans

by Spruce_Moose (Duckyboos)



Series: When Opportunity Knocks [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Anal Sex, Bottom Castiel, Humor, M/M, Manipulation, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 12:18:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2109666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckyboos/pseuds/Spruce_Moose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is a cat burglar. Dean is his (un)suspecting victim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Laid Plans

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moonunit (viscouslover)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/viscouslover/gifts).



> This is for my interwebz-BFF-5ever, Sach.
> 
>  
> 
> It's just supposed to be a slice of cracky ridiculous fun, so enjoy!

Sometimes life surprises you.

And there’s nothing more surprising than a half-naked dude, with a voice made for $1.99-a-minute phone lines, throwing himself at you when you open the front door.

Well, maybe there are a few things, like a dog that talks, but Dean isn’t complaining about his surprise, because well, this dude is smokin’ hot in a way that makes him momentarily wonder if he’s started hallucinating.

At least if he has then the talking dog thing may become a reality.

The dude’s hair is wild like he’s come out the losing side of a tussle with a hurricane and his blue eyes dart nervously up and down the street, before finally settling on Dean.

“Hello,” he flashes an obligatory smile that doesn’t reach those glorious eyes, “I appreciate that we don’t know each other, but may I come in?”

So Dean may be a bit of an asshole ‘cause if it was a dude that he didn’t wanna see all the way naked, then he would say what any rational person should, which is a tentative, ‘ _What the fuck, who are you, there’s a police station less than half a mile away, it’s too early for this’_. However, sanity is reserved for those who don’t have a guy with _the_ most distracting hip-bones, standing on their welcome mat actually asking to be allowed in.

“Uh,” Eloquence is always at the forefront of his personality. It’s why he gets so much action. And by action, he means Rosie palm and her five sisters. “Sure, I guess.”

He steps back in silent invitation and the man’s smile is genuine this time as he moves past Dean and into the house, surveying the relatively empty front room.

“Just moved?” The guy asks conversationally, like he hasn’t just turned up on his doorstep uninvited and half-naked. The half-naked is very important. Though not quite as important as Dean’s urge to get the guy _fully_ naked.

“…yeah.”

The stranger eyes the coffee table which is cluttered with four empty energy drinks cans, a couple of wadded napkins, an empty pie container and a paper plate littered with an empty brie wrapper, a used knife smeared with white cheese, and cracker crumbs. The TV opposite the ugly patterned couch is set to a low-volume with Bruce Willis crawling through an air vent on screen.

The guy lifts an eyebrow, “Expecting someone?”

Great. A fuckin’ stranger is judging him. Add him to the goddamn list.

“Look man, can I help you or something?”

Blue eyes turn on him then with an intensity that has his morality taking a swan dive, along with all the blood in his body, which seems to be focused on the sole purpose of filling his dick until he’s so hard that it hurts, and _all from a fucking look_.

Following that train of logic, imagining what he can do with those hands has the capacity to be orgasm inducing, so Dean instead tries to focus on mentally field-stripping his gun rather than just plain old stripping this guy’s _gun_.

Fucks’ sake.

The guy seems to blink himself out of it, coming to his senses. “Sorry. I err… I’ve just had a bit of a weird morning.”

“You and me both buddy,” Dean says it before he really thinks, but the guy just tosses him a thankful, but slightly awkward smile.

“Yeah. Um. Do you have a phone that I could use? I need to call my sister and let her know that I’m safe.”

“Sure,” Dean inclines his head over to the sideboard, before turning away and heading to the kitchen to hose himself down or something, “you want a glass of water?”

“That’d be great thanks.”

Dean makes a point of busying himself in the kitchen, creating enough noise to give the stranger a vague illusion of privacy. He can’t hear anything except for the low rumble of the guy’s voice and it gives him a few precious minutes for his boner to go the fuck away.

He grabs a glass tumbler from the draining board – ‘cause he is precisely the kind of person who never actually puts dishes back in the cupboard – and fills it under the faucet, just as the guy comes back in, scratching lazily at his bare stomach.

When Dean jerks off about this later – and he will, make no mistake – it will be to this memory right here. It’s like he’s at home with a boyfriend; a boyfriend who has just woken up, all sleepy with crazy bed head and has slung on a pair of jeans so as to be respectable at the breakfast table, but they’re totally gonna go back to bed and fuck once they’ve eaten pancakes and syrup. Preferably off each other.

Once again, his dick makes its presence known.

“You manage to make the call okay?” Which is a stupid question, because unless the guy was talking to himself out there –

Stranger things have happened.

_Yeah, like a dude showing up at the door half-fucking-naked._

“Yeah...Thanks. She was worried about me.”

Dean hands over the filled glass and blue-eyes accepts it with a grateful smile, glugging it down in one, and Dean does absolutely not watch his throat at work and imagine a scenario involving his dick and it getting swallowed down between those plush lips, and _god-fucking-dammit._

He’s not usually this depraved, but it’s been a while and this dude is walking sex, really.

He leans against the sink, trying to subtly rearrange his pants so that his dick’s intentions aren’t quite so obvious, but it’s a bit of a lost cause. He’s just thankful when the glass is handed back to him, so he can turn away without seeming rude.

“I gotta ask man, what happened to you?”

There’s a small pause then, “My boyfriend…he…uh. He gets mad sometimes. I went out last night and stayed over at a friend’s. He came and found me. Dragged me out into the street, my shirt ripped and so I ran.”

“Jesus, dude. I’m so sorry.”

Domestic violence is never something to be flippant about, so he finds the sincerity easily. And on the bright side, it kills his boner, so there’s that.

“It’s okay. I mean is it cool if I hang out here a little while? I mean if it’s not, I can just—“

Dean waves his hand dismissively, effectively cutting the guy off, “Of course. There is one condition though.”

Blue-eyes bites his lower lip, sucking the flesh into his mouth and that is really _not_ helpful. “Okay?”

“You gotta tell me your name.”

“It’s Cas.”

“Cool, I’m Dean. So do you wanna watch a movie or something Cas? I can make some food if you’re hungry?”

 

***

 

A few hours later, they’re both slouched on the sofa watching Bruce Willis blow shit up for the third movie running and Dean is comfortable. Probably far too comfortable given the situation, but there’s nobody else around to see the way Cas keeps drifting in and out of sleep, head on Dean’s chest, fingers loosely clenched in Dean’s tattered Henley, and he’s not going to feel guilty for enjoying this illusion whilst he can before reality comes a-knocking.

Cas snuggles in closer, his other arm snaking around Dean’s waist, and the shirt of Dean’s that he’s borrowing – one of the several quite literally off Dean's back – rides up, exposing the dip of his spine and curve of his ass in the close-fitting jeans.

Dean shifts in his seat; an ambiguous attempt to extricate himself and his goddamn traitorous dick from the situation, but Cas moves with him, which is _inconvenient_ to say the least.

“Cas?” He whispers, testing to see if his companion is awake.

Nothing. The seconds stretch out into minutes. Still nothing.

And then something.

The hand on Dean’s chest leisurely begins to inch its way downwards, sliding over his stomach and cupping his hardness through the fabric of his jeans and Dean can’t help the little moan he lets out, rolling his hips up, desperate to get some friction on his dick after spending the last few hours at either full or half mast.

Cas makes a small contented noise and presses down harder.

“Cas, buddy you gotta stop… _fuck_.” It’s really not an exaggeration to say that he’s a fucking whisker away from coming in his pants like he’s fifteen all over again and whilst in theory it sounds like a great idea, he’s not entirely comfortable with the fact that Cas still appears to be asleep.

He’s heard of people murdering others in their sleep, but sexually – not assaulting, ‘cause _fuck_ does Dean want it – _propositioning_ them is a new one on him.

“Cas.”

“Mhmm.”

Dean grits his teeth. _Jesus fuck_ , it feels so damn good. “Cas, please wake up.”

It must be the desperation in his voice, ‘cause seconds later Cas is finally stirring against him and he breathes a sigh of relief – and frustration – when the hand on his dick is removed.

The reprieve is only a temporary one though, because mere seconds later, his jeans are being unbuttoned and then nimble fingers are working the zipper down.

Dean’s eyes flicker to Cas and this time, lust-filled blue ones meet his. Holy fuck.

Dean has never been more thankful in his life that he was too lazy to do a wash this morning as it means that there’s no pesky underwear in the way, just the smooth skin of Cas’s palm on Dean’s dick and then he’s jacking Dean off with firm, slow strokes, squeezing, pulling, dragging Dean to the precipice of his sanity.

“You are so _hot_ ,” Cas mumbles in his ear, rich, deep voice laced with sleep, “saw how you were looking at me before. Can’t believe someone as beautiful as you isn’t getting this regularly.”

“Oh Jesus Cas,” Dean loses all semblance of propriety, fucking into Cas’s hand with utter abandon, hips rutting on pure instinct, head tipped back against the cushions in bliss and he’s so close to the edge that he’s not responsible for the words that his lips speak, entirely without consulting his brain first. “Cas stop, you gotta stop, please let me fuck you. Need to fuck you. Please, please, _fuck_.”

The hand stutters to a stop and Dean doesn’t dare open his eyes; too afraid of the look that Cas is undoubtedly giving him. He feels Cas’s weight shift around on the sofa and then it’s gone and Dean is a fucking idiot.

Somewhere in the lust-haze, he knows that he shouldn’t have said it, but at that moment in time somebody could have asked him for the keys to his Impala and he would have obliged without a second thought.

Normally he doesn’t even let his brother drive Baby.

When he risks squinting one eye open, Cas is still there, yanking the borrowed shirt overhead, his jeans having already been discarded on the floor in a crumpled heap, and suddenly it’s not a disaster, it’s the complete fucking opposite, ‘cause Cas is naked and tugging on Dean’s jeans, shoving them down past his thighs when Dean arches his back off the couch to help.

Cas climbs onto the sofa; a knee either side of Dean’s thighs, straddling his legs and brings two fingers up to his mouth, sucking them between his lips, easing them in and out, eyes never leaving Dean’s, before he reaches down and around, pushing the spit-slick digits inside that perfectly tight ass, whole body shuddering against the intrusion, and Dean wants the image tattooed onto his brain.

 _Fuck_ , if he dwells on the _pure fucking hotness_ of it for too long then he’s gonna come untouched, so instead, he decides to help in the only way he can and wraps his hand around Cas’s rock-hard dick, thumb smearing through the bead of precome gathered at the tip.

Cas gasps and his eyes flutter back open, “Fuck, feels so good.”

“Yeah,” Dean murmurs, too distracted by the way Cas’s hips move, fucking up into Dean’s fist, then fucking back onto his own hand with equal desperation, like he can’t decide which feels better, and he keeps letting out these little hitching moans as he stretches himself open and Dean can’t take it anymore.

“Need it Cas, need to be inside you.”

“Here,” Cas produces a condom from somewhere – Dean really doesn’t need to know where at this point – and he takes his hand off Cas’s dick long enough to roll the condom down over his own, before reaching out, catching Cas around the waist, tugging him close, crushing him against his chest.

In the next second Cas is sinking down onto him _so_ slowly, taking each inch _so_ deliberately that Dean is genuinely concerned he’s gonna have an aneurism from how badly he needs to fuck up into that _in-fucking-credible_ tightness. He needs it more than he ever thought possible and it’s not until he’s finally buried all the way inside Cas, thighs flush against Cas’s ass, that he releases the breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding.

And then Cas begins to move his hips upwards in a slow drag, pulling all the way, before driving back down, forcing a loud groan out of them both, Cas’s cock smearing pre-come between their abdomens.

“Feels good Dean,” Cas pushes away from Dean’s embrace, hands on his chest, nails digging and clinging through the shirt. “So fucking good.”

Whatever Dean was about to say in response, suddenly falls by the wayside as Cas begins to ride him in earnest, taking him harder and faster, head tipped back, exposing the shiny hollows of his throat, a long lean line of flawless skin and hot-fucking-damn Dean has never been so _hot_ for someone in his entire life.

Dean’s hips slam up of their own accord, rising to meet Cas’s, hands slipping on the sweat-slick skin of Cas’s waist as they move together, fucking against each other in a frantic rhythm that lacks any trace of finesse; just pure desperation and lust.

Dean fucks into Cas harder, hands cupping the curve of his ass, angling his hips, pulling Cas down onto his dick over and over again, driving into him so deep that he’s barely coherent, desperate to come in a way that makes everything else meaningless.

“Cas. Touch yourself; make yourself come-- So damn close.” Dean urges, watching with hazy pleasure-vision when Cas obeys immediately, stroking his cock quick and hard, all the while groaning out obscenities that just make the entire thing hotter if that’s even fucking possible.

" _Dean_ \--"

Cas comes first, spilling hot and thick over his fist in the scant space between their stomachs, crying out and still driving his hips back and forth, riding out his orgasm as Dean follows, fingertips digging bruises into the flesh of Cas’s ass, pumping him full until he’s slouching back down into the sofa, completely spent and practically boneless against the cushions.

Sleep seems like a very enticing notion right now, but unfortunately it’s not really an option, so it’s with great regret that he taps Cas on the thigh, “Gotta get up, beautiful.”

Cas makes a noise of protest, but nevertheless, stands with a wince, bending to retrieve his jeans and the borrowed shirt. Dean ties off the condom and bins it in the wastepaper basket on the other side of the sofa arm as Cas starts wiping himself down. Dean doesn’t bother with himself; his Henley is pretty much a lost cause.

“So you find anything worth stealing?” Dean flicks his eyes up to Cas’s, watching for the reaction that he won’t be able to conceal.

And there it is. A tiny, almost-unnoticeable flinch. “What?” He continues swiping the fabric across his abdomen and it’s probably a little unprofessional of Dean to be having this conversation whilst they’re mostly naked, but he did just fuck the guy, so the point is kind of a moot one.

Dean sighs, wanting to sleep too badly to draw this out like he’d imagined. “Castiel Novak. Twenty-eight years old. MO is gaining entry to a victim’s house anyway you can – a kind of recon stage, if you will. Abusive boyfriend story is a new one though - kudos on that by the way. Oh and usually your mark has recently moved. Then you return a week later to steal their stuff. Simple, but effective.”

Cas freezes completely and is staring at him, eyes wide and panicked. “Are you a cop?”

Dean gestures to his semi-nakedness, “Do I look like a fucking cop? Jesus, not even the most bent of cops fuck suspects _before_ they’re in custody.” He absolutely does _not_ inwardly laugh at his own turn of phrase.

The panic doesn’t dissipate from behind blue eyes. Which is good. Because the people Dean works for are _so_ much worse than some jail time. “You stole something from my employer. A painting. He wants it back.”

He can see Cas scanning through his memories, trying to figure out who Dean is referring to. “Roman?” he eventually whispers.

Dean winks, “Bingo bango.”

“Fuck.” Castiel jaggedly runs a hand through his hair, “Fuck. I don’t have it.”

“I know,” Dean says conversationally, “you fenced it last week.” He’s been following Cas since the first time he saw him on the CCTV in Roman’s complex a while back, getting inside on a bogus workman’s ID. As head of security for one of the scariest motherfuckers in LA, Dean’s paid to notice things.

And notice Cas he fucking did.

From there on, it was pretty straightforward; cat burglars generally aren’t used to being tailed, so over the past few months he’s become closely acquainted with Cas’s methods. Setting this trap was just supposed to be a bit of fun – certainly a welcome change from his usual daily routine of guns, dickheads and broken kneecaps.

Castiel stares at him like he’s really seeing at Dean for the first time. “This isn’t your house, is it?”

“Nope.”

“Whose house is it?”

“Fuck knows. Dude’s tied up in the walk-in closet.”

Cas’s lips curve up into an amused smile, “Where’s the painting?”

“Classified information, I’m afraid.” He sits up, sliding his palms up the backs of Cas’s thighs, curling over his ass, pressing a kiss to the still-tacky skin just above his belly button, “Though I guess you could always shake me down for the info, see what comes loose.”

“Uh huh,” Cas murmurs, looking down at Dean through half-lidded eyes. “ _Or_ I could just assume that you bought the painting from the guy I sold it to, gave it back to Roman like a good little boy, then set about this elaborate scheme to what… blackmail me for sex?”

“Blackmail is such an ugly word.” Dean hums, considering. “I was more thinking some _gentle persuasion_ , y’know being as I did go out of my way to not kill you for stealing from Roman.”

Cas’s breath hitches in the back of his throat. “I see. Well I suppose I could get on board with that. I do owe you a rather large _thank you._ You know, for saving my ass.”

Dean smirks before dipping his tongue into Cas’s navel, “It’s an ass well worth saving."

-

Sometimes life surprises you.

And other times it turns out exactly as you planned.  


**Author's Note:**

> This is part of (another) on-going series that I'mma be doing for the foreseeable future, called 'When Opportunity Knocks', which is a series of unrelated cracky, funny-(ish), porny one-shots. 
> 
> There a couple coming up that are either partially or mostly written, but if you have any ideas for future ones, let me know in the comments or here:
> 
>  
> 
> [ My Tumblr ](http://not-a-natural-born-idjit.tumblr.com/)


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